


Turn The Page

by GulJeri



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:43:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9856400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GulJeri/pseuds/GulJeri
Summary: Father Mulcahy is not expecting Radar to come seeking his council over a dream the young man had about Hawkeye. He is also not expecting the kiss.





	

Father Mulcahy is bent over a wobbly folding table in his tent. He is flipping the dog-eared pages of his Bible to search out a specific passage. He pauses to lick the tip of his finger, glances at the words on the page, squints at them in the low light of evening, and then continues searching. He pauses when he picks up the sound of shuffling just outside his door. He understands the noise as uncertainty: people approach his tent like this often, wanting to approach him, and yet afraid of something—judgment—perhaps. But Father Mulcahy isn't a very judgmental fellow. He holds his beliefs personally but does not use them as a weapon. There are too many men holding weapons already.

He rises from his chair and moves towards the door. He opens it. He was having trouble concentrating on his search anyway. His mind was wandering to the taste of sweet corn dripping with butter in the summer, to his early days learning to box, to severed limbs and too much blood. A kindly smile curves his lips and his darker thoughts are pushed to the back of his mind upon seeing the young man who is shuffling at what passes for his doorstep.

“Radar,” Mulcahy says, his smile growing a little wider, and touching his glittering blue eyes, “come in, Radar.”

Radar shifts from foot to foot. He is hunching his shoulders, holding his olive drab cap in both hands in front of him, regarding Mulcahy with young, wide, eyes over the tops of his metal rimmed glasses.

“Well I, oh—oh--well okay,” Radar says.

Mulcahy moves out of his way to allow the young man to enter and he closes the door behind him.

“Is something troubling you, Radar?” Mulcahy asks.

Radar licks his lips. Shifts nervously.

“Yes—well no—sorta,” Radar says.

Mulcahy purses his lips briefly and half-rolls his eyes.

“Well, that explains it,” the Father says.

Radar grimaces a little.

“Sorry, Father, I guess I don't have such a way with words. I'm not sure I should be talkin' to you about this anyway—I mean—in the Fatherly way. I'm a Methodist,” Radar says.

“That's quite alright, Radar,” Mulcahy says, the gentle smile back, “I can substitute as a Methodist pastor for a moment or two if need be.”

Mulcahy has counseled men and women of various denominations and faiths. He won't allow his dogma to get in the way of helping others. There is a war on and it is twisting minds, and breaking hearts, and people in this camp need someone to listen to their sorrows, concerns, and fears. Mulcahy believes that his religion should not be a barrier to serving others.

“Well, gee, Father...” Radar worries his cap in his hands, “it's about a dream I had.”

Mulcahy waits for Radar to continue but he doesn't.

“Go on,” Mulcahy urges. He moves back to the wobbly table and takes a seat in order to make himself smaller in case his presence is intimidating. He doesn't find himself and intimidating man under most circumstances but he realizes that some people are nervous under the gaze of the clergy. Mulcahy tries not to forget, but he has always seen himself as a common man, and any intimidation in him only truly rises with his Irish temper and even then it is limited to an indignant cry of “ninny!” or a hard right that he will later regret having thrown. 

Radar puffs out a breath. He does seem to relax a bit more now that Mulcahy is seated.

“I had a dream about... about Hawkeye,” Radar says.

Mulcahy has dreams about Hawkeye too. He's had dreams about so many people in camp—they wake him in cold sweats at night, trembling, tears streaming down his face because their bodies were bloody, and broken, and he was too late to save them or his hands were not skilled enough to do anything more than to deliver the last rites. He opens his mouth to speak but Radar says something else in a very small voice that is almost a whisper.

“A sexy kinda dream,” the young man says.

“Oh,” Mulcahy's voice pitches up higher in surprise. That wasn't what he had expected. He tries his best to keep the warmth from tinting his cheeks.

“Never mind! I should go!” Radar becomes frightened like one of his little animals, the rabbit probably, and bolts for the door.

“Radar, wait!” Mulcahy goes after him and takes a hold of his wrist, “don't go, please. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. These sort of dreams are not uncommon and Hawkeye, well, he ah... he is a very attractive man.”

Radar regards Mulcahy with wide eyes. Mulcahy is certain that this was not the response the young man had expected. Parts of it was not the response Mulcahy had expected to come out of him either. He probably shouldn't have commented on Hawkeye's good looks after all—but then again it was only a fact. What harm was there in acknowledging someone as handsome? It was merely an observation. The only true harm it could do would be to send Hawkeye squawking peals of laughter at him if this opinion uttered by the Father was to ever get back to him.

Mulcahy did not think it would, though. Radar wouldn't tell him, because Radar didn't want Hawkeye to know that Radar thought it too.

“But men aren't supposed to think that way about other men—well—other men can think that way about other men and this man don't care, but this man isn't supposed to think that way. What would my ma think! What would everybody in Ottumwa think! Men don't think that way about other men in Iowa! We're all normal there!”

Mulcahy gives a small sigh.

“Radar, there isn't anything abnormal about it.”  


“Anyway, I do like girls,” Radar says, lowering his lashes a bit, “I can prove it. I can show you just where that hole is in the showers and I look through it a lot! God knows that sorta thing, don't'cha think?”

Mulcahy chuckles.

“Yes, He does. But... it is also not abnormal to find women and men attractive,” Mulcahy says, "some people do."

“You mean you can like both? Gee... that seems sorta greedy,” Radar says.

Mulcahy laughs.

“I'm not sure if it's greedy, or not. I think... it's just a preference some folks have. Sometimes people choose the liver in the mess hall because they don't like the chipped beef, sometimes they choose the chipped beef because they don't like the liver, and some people like either,” Mulcahy says. He thinks that using food as a metaphor is something that Radar, of all people, can understand.

But Radar gives him an odd look.

“Well golly, Father, what does food have to do with it!”

Mulcahy should have known better. Radar isn't stupid, after all, but he does better at picking up on things if they're just stated directly.

“I'm only saying, Radar, that it's okay. There is nothing wrong with the dream that you had, and there is nothing wrong with finding Hawkeye, or other men, attractive.”

Their gazes meet in a different way from behind the panes of their glasses now. Mulcahy is suddenly all too aware of Radar's pulse thumping beneath his fingers and the fact that he is still holding that wrist and does not really want to let go. He closes the gap between them. It is late in the day and both of them are dressed only in their olive cargo pants and black undershirts. Mulcahy's golden crucifix glimmers against the dark cotton in the low light. Their chests are almost touching now. Radar's breathing has changed. Mulcahy thinks he will run away but he doesn't. He isn't sure what he is doing either, but Radar's cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, his curly brown hair is messy, his glasses are smudged. He is in a word: adorable.

But what sort of man would he be to take advantage of a young man who has come to him for help? Mulcahy shakes his head, utters a little sound of disbelief at himself, and begins to step back—but then Radar's lips are on his. He is shocked that the shy boy would be so bold. Mulcahy finds that doesn't know what to do with his hands, and that the kiss is short and unsure, and that they are kissing again. He rests his hands along the curve of Radar's broad back and admires the way the muscles are strong from hard work on the farm and how they quiver beneath his own quaking hands. Radar's hands land hesitantly against Mulcahy's hips, resting against the tops of his pockets, the sides of his belt, and the tops of his pants where his black undershirt tucks in. Mulcahy can feel Radar's hands trembling too. Neither of them are very experienced at things like this: Radar is young and shy, and Mulcahy is a priest who has vowed not to indulge in such desires of the flesh. 

They continue slowly, stealing quick closed-mouth kisses, pausing to remove their glasses that are fogging with steam from their breath. They sit their glasses aside and then begin tugging the hems of each others undershirts out from the bands of their pants. Mulcahy's hands slide over the curve of Radar's belly. It is full from dinner and fuzzy with more of that wild brown hair and Mulcahy thinks he could melt. Radar slides his hands under Mulcahy's shirt too. His form is trimmer than Radar's, and his golden blond hair is more sparse, a slender trail twisting up from beneath his waistband and ending where it meets his naval. A scattering of it like soft yellow straw across his chest. Mulcahy kisses the curve of Radar's jaw and the stubble is rough and delicious.

Radar makes a little moaning noise.

Then he goes stiff and still.

“Radar?” Mulcahy pulls back.

He watches Radar's eyes gaze upwards as if through the top of the tent.

“What's the matter, Radar?”

Radar licks his lips.

“Choppers!” he says.

“Oh!”

They scramble around the tent for a moment in a daze, Mulcahy hastily tucking his shirt in, Radar searching for his cap, Mulcahy's heart thundering in his chest from what they were doing and the surge of adrenaline that always rushes through him when he hears the thud-thud-thud of chopper blades bringing the wounded in low over the camp. They grab their glasses and hook them behind their ears, and rush for the door. Both of them pause, frown, and trade their glasses. 

They merge into the rush of olive and anxiety that flies towards the choppers and with automated motions they fall into the routine of triage. They are lost behind the shouts of the doctors and the cries of the injured. They are hidden behind masks as the surgeons work their magic. They avoid each other's gaze as they both look up at Hawkeye and Mulcahy knows that both of them find him handsome, his black and peppered hair falling over his forehead, his eyes set in concentration, his skillful hands wielding clamps, and scalpels. 

When they collapse onto a bench together after the last surgery is finished Mulcahy barely hears the joke that Hawkeye makes to keep himself sane. He knows that Potter is searching for a spot on his coat that isn't bloody so he can wipe his glasses but he is not watching the Colonel. He can hear Charles muttering and squabbling with Hawkeye but that doesn't matter either.

He is thinking about how old Radar looks for a moment. He is just a boy and he is often a picture of innocence throughout the camp but after hours and hours of tending the wounded he notices lines at the corners of Radar's eyes that he hadn't before, and he thinks that his eyes look duller, and he worries that war is robbing them of so many things that none of them will ever get back again. Mulcahy thinks of taking Radar out of here and finding a secluded spot to kiss him again so he can see that young light come back into his eyes again. He thinks about how good it would feel for both of them to experience something new, and good, in this hell of a place.

But Mulcahy is tired and he tips his head back against the wall, and he thinks that kissing Radar will not happen again.  


He trudges back to his tent with exhaustion weighing down on him heavily. Dawn is blooming over the Korean horizon and Mulcahy is thinking of coffee instead of sleep, of checking his garden, of how it is growing harder day by day to wear his mask of lightheartedness over the stain of his tears.

He shuffles into his tent and sits down at the wobbly table. His Bible was left open there.

Mulcahy licks the tip of his finger.

He turns the page.


End file.
